~ A roller coaster ride called life…

Category Archives: Parenting

It was one of those nights when I was complaining again of an unfamiliar, unrecognizable pain in my stomach and my husband was giving me ‘Here she goes again’ look. I was back from a hectic day at office – back to back meetings, software release just around the corner, fights with the development team – and had buried my face in the pillows to comfort myself.

“This is a daily thing with you these days”, he said. I gave him a nasty look and said, “Be at my place and then say it.” And then added that it was anyways not a false alarm. This thing, this mass of cells, these tiny legs and arms were ready to stretch and the little bobbly eyes were seemingly hungry to see the world. Till 11 in the night, we kept fidgeting with the idea whether it was the real siren of a long pending arrival or just a fake. But now the pains were regular and I was writhing every time. One call to the doctor and she told me to time them and if they were less than 10 minutes apart, to come to the hospital immediately. They were indeed less than 10 minutes apart and I was about to get into the one and only action scene of my life where I would be screaming out my lungs and my guts literally.

“But there are still 3 days left before my maternity leave starts. The product release is due in two days.” I wondered loudly while sitting in the car and my husband couldn’t help but laugh at me. He said pointing towards my unimaginably inflated tummy, “Look at our product which is about to release now.”

I sprawled on the bench for the nurses, doctor and attendants to see what was happening. I was their guinea pig for the night. I kept kicking my husband the entire night with every gush of pain. That day, my husband understood why it was called the labor pain. By early morning, I was exhausted, my husband was bruised and my son was showing no inclination of leaving the safe havens of my tummy which I felt was way too cramped for him. But as soon as the doctor came and checked on me, he decided to burst open his watery cushion and there, I was wheeled into the delivery room which was not even remotely close to the set you see in the movies. Or maybe I was too faded to notice.

All I remember from that moment is the high pitched “Push” “Push” in a chorus and one of the over-enthusiasts screaming right in my ears whose collar I grabbed and asked, “What else do you think I am doing?”

And then my stomach just made a ‘thup’ sound on colliding with my back bone and a little screaming boy was put on it. Little did I know that this small wonder was going to be my lifeline from now on. My maternal instincts were like a tubelight so the relief on my face was more from getting rid of the pain and the exhaustion than seeing him for the first time. Please, no brick bats for me. I warm up to the new friendships a little late you see :-)

6 years have gone by since then and that little neatly folded package with an alien elongated head is now a naughty brat who fights with me, teases me, makes me smile at the snap of his tiny fingers and already knows the tricks to make my heart melt when I am angry with him. These years were not a cakewalk and I am sure even the next 6 or 12 or 24 won’t be but the cake cutting at every birthday will continue. His favorite characters will rapidly change from Doraemon to Spiderman to Selena Gomez and Kim Kardashian but we will always raise the toast to this friendship that begun 6 years ago and will continue for our lifetimes. To the rising son of my life.

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With extreme pleasure and happiness, I bring to you the blogger who is one of my favorites. She is fiery, she is feisty, doesn’t mince words when it comes to fighting for the right cause and at the same time extremely sensitive and humble. And a great friend too. So Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome Rachna of the Rachna Sayswho I am sure you are already familiar with. But if you are not, you’ve got to checkout her blog which is not only a happy place but also very socially aware. Every time I visit her blog, I learn something new. Without much delay, I pass on the dais to Rachna who in this guest post writes about the importance of routine and discipline.

As much as we hate a set path, a routine is what our heart and mind desires. A few days out of the home on vacation and don’t you crave your simple daily routine minus the exotica of resorts and adventure of traveling? I do! I crave to be back at my desk with my reliable wi-fi in my pajamas. Yes, life is an adventure, but we would rather approach it through a known and comforting path.

And setting the routine requires a lot of effort, trust me. As soon as the child is born, doctor advises that the mother set a routine. Feed them at regular intervals and not haphazardly. When you begin potty training, you take them every few hours to the toilet and gently prod them to go. You also put them to bed at the same time so that they get used to falling asleep the same time every day. It makes life easier for both of you. And as they grow older, you expand this discipline in their lives. They have to finish studies at a given hour, play only an hour of their favorite video game, be back home by a given time, so on and so forth. Your kids will plead with you, emotionally blackmail you to be lenient and even hate you for setting deadlines. It will be much later in their lives when they will thank you and even appreciate you for it. At least I am banking on the same J.

Strangely, discipline is somehow equated with a cuss word. Immediately images of Lalita-Pawaresque expressions and spanking come to mind. Most of us were brought up with loving moms and strict dads who used less of cuddling and more of stern expressions and serious looks. My mom’s favorite line to calm a bunch of crazy kids was, “Wait till your father gets home in the evening!” Oh that sobered whatever mischief we were up to. Dad was very fair in handing out the punishments. No matter who was in the wrong, all the crybabies got equal punishment. Intelligent as we were, we quickly figured out that all sibling troubles, especially tattling and complaints must not be taken to dad.

Surprisingly discipline is looked at as an assault on independence which it is not. On the contrary, unless we teach our children the importance of discipline and a routine in their lives, they are sure to falter later. Imagine what would happen when they are adults themselves? With the absence of parental authority, they will take their messed up lifestyle a step further into chaos. Look at the adults around you who have no qualms in watching TV till late nights. They are stuck to their gadgets all the time. They are indisciplined in their eating habits and other activities and unconsciously pass them on to their children. It is not preaching that works but living what you preach that does. And then we wonder about brash brats and a generation that battles health issues. Well who is to blame – Mr. and Ms. Cribbing parent?

Why is it difficult to enforce discipline? Because which kid does not like a messy room, socks on the sofa, school bag thrown around and eating chips, burgers and colas for lunch and dinner. There are some mothers who go around picking up after them. And that is an incentive for them to be more organized? Then there are those who feel that the easier way out is to feed the kid what he/she demands instead of inculcating healthy eating habits that surely need more time and persuasion.

Yes, independence is really important. And we all want our children to be independent, thinking individuals. But independence does not come at the cost of going about your life in a confused manner. Indiscipline makes you unorganized. The single biggest advantage in leading a disciplined life is that it pulls you back when you overindulge or are about to go over the edge. Yes please find time to be around to enforce a certain discipline in your child’s life! And remember charity begins at home! Show some discipline of your own while you are at it!

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Very recently I read an article by a fellow blogger on Outsourced Parenting. Now what is outsourced parenting, you may ask? In his respectable opinion, the people who choose to go to work all day and delegate the major part of the growing up of their children to the daycares and the nannies and the baby sitters or anyone else who is willing to take the responsibility voluntarily are ‘modern’ parents who are ‘lazy’ and will end up having no ‘connect’ with their children.

Let me express my opinion on this very interesting perspective. To start with, I am a mom who works from home and I made this choice on the basis of my personal circumstances and situations. I was fortunate enough to have the option to turn my hobby into my career and hence work from home. In IT, which was my profession before I left my job, I would have nearly no choice of working from home barring a few companies. And so does many of the other career choices. They simply do not offer the privilege of working from home. And If I think hard, do all of us even prefer to work from home? I say no and it is perfectly fine.

I know many moms and for that matter many dads who handle full time jobs, play and spend time with their kids when they are home and manage kids’ hobby classes and tantrums on weekends. So will you call them ‘lazy’ or ‘super efficient’? The pick is yours. They are balancing being an individual and a parent at the same time and that does not call for any trip down the guilt lane.

What is wrong in wanting to have a career after having kids? Does your life stop after having kids? If tomorrow I get the option to start working full time and I choose to do it, does this mean I don’t love my child or am I guilty of wanting an individual life? I say no. Parenting is not meant to bind you, it is meant to help you explore another dimension of life. ‘The child is your shadow’ does not have to be taken in the literal sense. If I want to spend some time alone with my friends or my husband or even with myself, I will happily send my child over for a play date or for the whole day in a daycare or to his grandparents. Yes, we are modern parents who like to have a life of their own and do not want to always think about our children and I simply ask what is wrong with that.

And how does that make the emotional bond with the children weaker is something that totally mystifies me. Why is there an innate need to send others on the guilt trip? Whether one is a work outside home, work from home or stay at home parent, every choice has its own pros and cons and it is a conscious choice that an individual makes and he or she has the right to do that. The emotional connect with the children is not formed if they keep seeing you around all the time. It is formed with spending quality time with them.

There was another point in his post that said “The kids won’t be there when you will need them. Because you did the same to them.” Now this point is which I take total umbrage to.

This means that all the people in the world raise their children with the sole motive of having them as their ‘buddape ka sahara’. Even better, all the people who specifically stay at home or work from home are doing that not for their own happiness but to be at a position where they can hold their own children to ransom. I can’t help but feel pity that some people are still stuck with notions of medieval era. We as modern parents know how to take care of ourselves in any age. We as parents of children of Gen Z know that children are our best friends if we extend our arms far enough and not some fixed deposits that will mature at the right time to take care of us.

I wonder if this is a tussle between sticking fervently to old traditions and accepting what is good but new. How sad it is that even in today’s age and time, we are not only judgmental about people’s choices but have the guts to call them dimwits just because they do not confirm to our idea of parenting. We all are doing what we think is best for our children so work from home, stay at home or work outside home, guilt just cannot claim a space even in the remotest corner.

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Standing by the side of the pavement of a busy road with vacuum in eyes, my heart pounded so hard that it threatened to rip apart the ribs and fall on the ground. I frantically looked around, ran a few steps towards the open space just in front of the market complex that housed a good coffee shop and number of other stores to handle daily needs and then looked back at the speedily moving cars blinding with their headlights, he was nowhere to be seen. It was rush hour traffic with one car not leaving even breathing space for the other. Minutes before we were parking the car by the roadside approved parking area to cut grocery shopping off my list of To-dos for the weekend and I got out shifting the lone cycle to another safe place which was blocking the four wheeler parking space. By the time I returned back, he had disappeared.

My son, all of one and half years old, had vanished when I was busy moving the cycle and my husband craning his neck outside the window to avoid bumping into the adjacent car. How he opened the door, how he climbed out, how the disdain plain day turned into horror seeing the seat empty happened in a flash. We looked at each other and could only ask, “Where is he?”

I, in my unassuming hurry, had just pushed the door enough to touch the hinges but didn’t close it. It was not difficult for him to push it and get out.

My mind raced even faster than my heart. “What if he ran towards the road?”, “What if he started walking on the pavement and just moved out of the vision?”, “Did I hear a car screech to a halt?” It was hard to shake off all the fears and I was literally shivering. My husband came closer and said, “I will go look towards the road and you go towards the open space. Ok?” He knew I would be unable to handle the road, the glare of lights asking me how on the earth I lost sight of him. The fear of losing him, the fear of looking at the end of the world straight in the eye was written in bold letters on my face.

I nodded my head and as I ran towards the long stretch ahead of the coffee shop, I loudly announced almost bursting in tears, “Has anyone seen a boy? A little boy… please … He is wearing a dangri .. please help me…”

The words almost drowning in the tears hazing my vision. I never thought I would ever in my life utter these words. He didn’t know how to speak and he wouldn’t be able to find his way back to me or to my husband. There was a dark street just round the corner. He was not big enough to fear the dark. What if he had walked into that long forgotten alley or if someone just scooped him up seeing him alone and walked away? The startled passersby gave me puzzled looks, some wondering what I was saying, some looking around if they could sniff even a speck of that boy – a footprint, a sandal, the flailing arms, some judgmental on how a mother can do that and some outrightly ignoring the disheveled state and the intensity of words that were ringing in my head again and again.

“I just saw a baby running there?” a college going boy with a backpack on his shoulders pointed out towards the fag end not far from the alley. I rushed past him taking cue from his raised finger and there – I saw him standing with his hands in his mouth and head tilted up to have a better view of the tall strangers walking past him. He looked far from anxious, bemused even. As soon as our eyes met, a familiar smile broke on his face, the one I was used to seeing when he would find his favorite toy among the pile he had painstakingly searched.

I had found what I was looking for too and it felt that suddenly my lungs started working again, the air a little chilly but with just the right nip. By now, my husband had already searched the road side and was sure that our son couldn’t have gone towards the heavily crowded road or else the whole traffic would have come to a halt. He couldn’t lose his mind, at least not when I was spilled all over. He found us together staring at each other; he walked fast paced towards our son taking him into his arms while I was just standing there wiping the sweat beads on my forehead and gulping the guilt. He patted his back and told him while resting his tiny face on his broad shoulder, “Its fine!” and then he looked at me and said, “Really, it is!”

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I was leaning as usual on my books to make sense of the gibberish my teacher taught me when suddenly the doorbell rang. My dad was standing on the other side of the mesh door with a clumsily wrapped thing that peeked out teasing me. He was never a good wrapper of gifts and I believe the shopkeeper who did the job this time was not any good too. The jet black wheels, red shiny handles and the upside down ‘U’ of the molded steel bar holding the long banana seat peeked out of the Mickey Mouse gift paper enough to make me jump up and down even before letting my father inside the house. He knew Mickey Mouse was my favorite cartoon character so he must have looked around to find the perfect wrapping paper too to make my 6th birthday entirely mine. He must have remembered the disappointing eyes with which I always accepted the old books, the old shirts, the old toys passed on as a legacy from my elder brother to me.

This one, this red cycle, was mine. It had a long red sliding seat, he told me, could be adjusted when I would grow taller. It had support wheels, he warned me, would have to go one by one as I had to learn how to ride this beautiful thing. It had a tinkling bell, he stated in a matter of fact tone, need not be rung all the time. And all this while I was wondering how I will show this off to my friends and make them envious. Now I know that was the first time I had fallen in love.

I treated that cycle the same way, as my lover. I polished it, took it out only to walk with me hand in hand(le) and instead of the small garage that we had, I used to park it near my bed. I used to ride it only to make my parents happy and as soon as they were out of vision, I would get down and walk along. This continued for six months when my father decided that he had to play the villain and pull me out of this pink cloud of romance. He, before the morning sun hit the window pane of my room, removed its one support wheel and ordered my brother to take charge of teaching me how to ride it. Did I tell you how much I cried seeing my three legged friend suddenly turning into a two legged beast that I had to learn how to control?

I found a way out. I started to put all my weight towards the side which had the support wheel and I was comfortable. It was only a matter of two days before my clever act of defiance caved in the middle like a badly baked cake and the second support wheel also found its place in the cluttered end of the garage. I was left with no choice but to learn how to balance. That was my first step to know what an idiot I was to resist this change. What a wonderful feeling it was to see my brother’s and my father’s figures turn into blurs as I moved farther and farther. I glided with this cycle and now no corner of the world seemed inaccessible. My world, of course, was my colony I lived in.

And his world, of course, is the apartment complex we live in. My son is as defiant as me and has exactly used the same techniques to ward off the evil of controlling his friend. But I know, like my father, that no matter how much we resist change it usually is for the better. He is learning to break free, he is learning to find his own paths and as I cut the umbilical chord slowly and steadily while telling him how to maintain the balance, now I know what my father must have felt turning into a blur in my life.

Bus stop is the best place to understand a parent’s mind. Someone who has woken up at 6 in the morning to prepare meals, get ready the children and drop them off at the stop where he/she is actually catching a breath to carry on with the routine which awaits for him/her at home and office. If the child is little rowdy – a silent scolding away from the glare of the other companions, if he is running too much – warning to stay on the side and if they all are ganging up and howling too much – all mothers form a team too picking up their players and asking them to mellow down.

In those five to ten minutes, you find streaks of patience, aggression and sometimes over the top reactions. And you wonder what proportions they escalate to in the secure confines of the home when no one is watching. I heard a mother mentioning that the moment she landed on the Indian airport, she gave a five finger present to her son on his face. The son is about 6 years of age and apparently they lived in US for those initial six years. On prodding further she said, “Our children (she meant Indian) can’t be tamed without beating. There (in US), parents use all those time-outs and fancy stuff. And their children understand that. I won’t think twice before hitting him again at least when I am in India.”

That is what Indian soil does to Indian parents.

It doesn’t mean that I have never touched my child. After all, I have also been brought up with the thinking that hitting your blood and bone is fine. I think deep down we all believe that it is ok to give one slap on and off when the child is not listening or behaving not in line with our thoughts.

This is the scenario that we see on regular basis. Teachers don’t refrain from pulling ears and go ahead with occasional taps with the ruler, parents find their patience fly out of the window and they calm themselves with a quick slap on the tiny face of the child. A mechanism to calm down and sometimes to satisfy the ego? And then there are extremes when a child is hit, scolded and reprimanded daily for one thing or the other and then it turns into deep cuts, bruises and mysterious falls from the stairs. How often as witnesses we stand up and tell the parents to back off? We usually don’t.

And how often we tell ourselves to back off?

If we have stringent rules like in US and Norway where hitting a child is crime and they are taken away by social services department to give them a better future, can they work?

A law is already in place where teachers cannot hit the child but as far as I know even the high end schools have routine of ruler bashing and ear pulling. And they get away with it. One- the vigilance is not strict enough, two – parents despite knowing that this is happening keep mum.

It stems from a common problem – general disregard for other’s rights and law. And children as always have been considered the property of parents.

The recent cases in Norway about Indian couples threatening and abusing children have highlighted it even more. The parents pleaded ‘cultural differences and Indian values’ which made me even more enraged. Do Indian values teach hitting the child with belt and giving him burns on the body? Does Indian culture teach to neglect the behavioral issues that the child might be facing (apparent in both cases)? How long will we keep pushing things under the carpet in the name of values?

I wonder what will happen if such a law is brought under the gambit of Indian judicial system. First there will be uproar because there are many people who tenaciously want to protect their right to hit children and will never understand what is wrong with it. More than law, its stricter implementation is the key. There is no way to monitor what happens with the child behind the brick and mortar and the neighbors usually don’t care. It will require perfect co-ordination between school, child care authorities, police and neighbors. And it can’t happen without a little dose of humanity and respect for individuality.

Wishful thinking, isn’t it!

For now, how about tying our hands with our tongues, shall we?

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Now that I am a mom, there is always a part of me that keeps tugging to my shirt and asking questions. He never stops and so are the memory flashbacks of the time when I tugged along someone who now has silver grey hairs.

I was the favorite child of my parents and they made sure they told me so. I was an uncomplicated kid –no demands, no choices, no opinions – I had to be the favorite one. They always took all the decisions of my life – which dress to wear, which course to choose, which entrance tests to give, even how to wear my hair. When it came to applying for higher studies, I was told specifically that nothing outside the state would work out. I cringed but I thought that they loved me too much to let go. That’s how I was brought up and I never knew anything better. ‘This is how parents are supposed to be’. But the fact is that I was on remote control. So I never knew what it meant to take decisions and then follow them through.

I never questioned anything in my life until almost a decade ago. I blame the stint in hostel for that and I guess my parents too. Some events in my life brought along such a strong undercurrent that I hit the wall and that’s when I opened my eyes. I was so lopsided to even notice it. So when I decided to take the reins in my own hands, I was Alice in Wonderland – lost, confused, an escapist by thought. Years of conditioning just doesn’t vanish in a day. I struggled to find my footing but when I finally did, I latched on to it for my life. Lessons learnt the hard way. No wonder having a family mattered so much to me. But I promised myself that I was not going to be like any of my parents. No role models. In fact an urge to change the childhood that I remembered. I knew one thing – I had to do everything differently, well almost.

So today when I approach the whole philosophy of parenting, I struggle to maintain a balance between being authoritative and being loosened up parent. The tight rope walk often becomes way too tight for me. So I keep telling myself that I held him when he was baby, then I had to let go and just hold on to his hand when he became a toddler (the discomfort of carrying so much weight was the instigator and also he had to learn walking on his own). Now I have to let go of his hand and hold it just occasionally when he asks me to and then I have to be ready for the time when he will be completely on his own, making his own decisions and will be responsible for them too.

It is ironical that putting them on the floor to start walking comes so easily to us but when they really start finding their own footing, we want to control their every move.

It is like putting a leash on the horse who wants to explore the meadows on his own without any jockey. So what happens? Either the horse goes berserk or he chooses to resign to fate and be in the stable only to be brought out for jockey’s sojourn.

That’s why we have either rebels or muted meek souls. Now a third variety I have come to know of is of converts like me.

Do we realize how slowly and steadily the tables are turned on us and we don’t even notice? After initial few years, the stage is set to be friends with the children where we are entitled to put forth the opinions but cannot and should not force them to be followed without questions. This is not only important for us to be at peace but also for the children to grow into responsible teens and then emotionally secure adults.

But let me point out that it is not easy. When you have been responsible for taking care of every little thing of the child, passing on the control to that very little one is numbing especially in Indian society where a child always remain a child. And if you have been dominant all your life, it is a bed sore.

My parents taught me the biggest lesson- if a child has to become independent in thought, in action, in responsibility, it has to start early. I have started with simple choices like clothes, food, toys, which competitions to participate in and which friends to play with. The real test is when the choices reach the next level. I don’t mean total disregard for what our opinion as parents is but once the child realizes that his decisions are respected, he will start taking them responsibly too. The child just needs the confidence that he can take the decisions and it is alright to take a wrong decision as well.

I immediately step back when I see a faint streak of being my own mom popping out. Whether it is the controlling attitude, overpowering maternal instincts or urge to pull him from his hand instead of just saying “Don’t”, I step back. And I think the key to good parenting is to know when and where to step back and be at the rear rather than steering the child’s life all along.

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My 4 year old is a bundle of energy. When he finishes playing in his room, it seems as if a twister has passed by. The toys lie around the whole place like landmines and crayons look like missiles fired with the most accurate aims. Busted tanks, amputated dolls, and pileup of cars are a common sight. Of course, the battlefield is cleared with his help but it takes a lot of time and patience. So this sight becomes the biggest sore of my eyes when I have writing assignments with strict deadlines.

It was one of those days when I had an important deadline to meet and nothing smart was coming to my mind. I was at my wit’s end. I wanted to finish the piece before lunch because post that the little one was going to take over the house. He came back from school and at that time I had just started getting some coherent thoughts. I opened the door, hugged him hurriedly with a smile, told him to select his clothes and went back to my laptop as I knew he would take his own sweet time to reach at a decision and I did not want to lose the momentum. I wrote down some thoughts and then decided to get up so as to change his clothes quickly and again get back to work (you know how a mom’s brain works, always multitasking).

But as I reached the living room, the sight outraged me. His one shoe was lying on the carpet and other right at the main door orphaned. His socks were bundled and thrown on the sofa. His bag and water bottle were lying on the floor itself.

And where the naughtiness personified was? Standing in his room in front of the cabinet looking for the fresh pair of clothes.

I just could not control myself and started yelling at him, “You never listen to me. How many times I have told you to put things at their rightful place. Come here, right now!”

He came running out of his room with a wide smile on his face and it irked me even more. Before I could say anything further, he rushed to pick up all the mess. After putting shoes in the shoe rack, socks in the laundry basket and bag and bottle at their respective places, he came to me. My face was livid and my hands were firmly on my hip. He pulled me down from my hand and when I lowered down to reach at his height, he just moved his two fingers over my disgruntled eye brows as if to make the angry lines on my forehead disappear.

With the wide grin intact, he said, “Mamma. No angry”, and cupped my face with his tiny hands.

I was embarrassed. The frustration of work got the better of me. Here I was shouting at him with all the intensity and there he was complete opposite of me armed with the sweetest smile.

No doubt he has to be disciplined and needs to be taught the right things but there are better ways to teach than use anger as he taught me that day with his smile.

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A house littered with toys or just spick and span even at the end of day?

A basket of fruits almost empty waiting to be refurbished or a fully laden cart untouched?

A fridge raided for all sweet treats and tell-tale signs or no movement around the kitchen at all?

A screaming child bringing the house down or the one lying on the bed with just silent conversation?

I may not admit it on better days but I would prefer the former choices any day to the latter because seeing your child rolled like a bundle on the bed is far worse than seeing him jumping on the sofa and breaking the springs.

The monsoon is such a happy time when the trees move in slow motion and clouds burst open at slightest provocation. Birds find the nearest shade and camp until a shine from the eluding sun allures them. The ground is riddled with small puddles and cycle tracks. A perfect time for long drives and never-ending tea sessions in the balcony and also perfect for kids to catch viral infections and undergo antibiotic courses. Suddenly the definition changes and you want the clouds to just vanish and pray for sun to not have a no-show day.

The house is quiet and the play dates have gone unanswered. I have far less things to do as the day packs up but I am not happy. I have spent the last two days just sitting by his side and he has given me enough intermittent smiles to tell that how reassuring it is. But my heart wants something else. Chaos, perfect chaos to be at peace.

Just one request – God can you be kind and not throw all the germs along next time you open the flood gates of heaven?

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I am a mom and I am one of many out there. I laugh with my child, scold him, make him cry and also pamper him silly. I falter in maintaining the balance between being firm and loosened up. I shout at him for no reason sometimes. So am I someone who should be hated? Do I need to hide it and pretty up, put up the garb of being picture perfect in front of the whole world? I see many moms who say ‘Oh! I love my child. He is an angel. I never scold him…’ That gives me complex because I am not even in contention. How can one be so sobered up all the time with a kid in lap?

Right from the day my son was born, I was in a dilemma- the dilemma of being someone who was not nearly as good as the picture each one of us have of a mother or should I say the picture that is put into our minds. No one tells us that it is going to be an experience full of frustration, disgust (initially) and to top it all a tight rope walk. All everyone talks about is how wonderful being a mom is. Yes it is wonderful but it needs some serious jerking up of the brain. If only we are honest enough to pass on that it is the most difficult role a woman ever dons in her life and it is hard.

So am I the only one? I am now sure no. I was reading an article in yesterday’s Times of India ‘No Such Thing As Perfect Mom’ and it proved me right. There are good-enough mothers, difficult mothers but really nothing like the metaphor “Perfect mom.” Not even good moms.

It is more to do with the perception we create and we live with.

We have a culture of idealization of mothers. Mothers can never be wrong. Mothers are patient at all times even when the kid is stomping on the foot or crying in the middle of the road. Mothers are sacrificing even if it means giving the last available ladle of specially prepared batter to the kid and go hungry (in filmy situations) or cook something else for herself(in normal life) . Mothers know what is best for the child.

No, I am none of that and I admit it in all honesty. I get frustrated and I get angry. If last ladle of batter is left of my favorite food after serving all, I make something fresh alongside for my child and save that last pour for me. I love my independence, how can I let him forego his for my sake. I will rather not have the burden of overseeing his decisions too. But I will make sure that he has the ability to take the decisions and then stick by them.

On many shows you hear people saying that this is their mom’s dream or dad’s dream. This also reflects how much influence we make even on the dreams of our children. It is not necessary that they also want the same things but they go with the tide and don’t question it. I don’t have any dreams for him except whatever he chooses to do, he gives it his 100%. I will fulfill my dreams in my lifetime by myself with my companion.

I strive to be someone who is a good influence on him. I know the onus is high and I am responsible for teaching him right and wrong where I myself fail to make out the difference at times. But this is who I am – not ideal, not perfect – just a mom with no adjectives.